We were driving down furnace woods -
long sleeves, striped shirts, throwing my hands out the door, but all in fun.
Did we kill him?
(Wait for the air to stop, then wake [bad word] up. Hold you head in place, but shake off your thoughts.)
I laughed so hard, glass through the air. Right by his face, good thing we cared - but not at all.
And it was then, that I felt the breeze over my head and through my hands.
Are you sorry? Are you sad? You're just a little bit tired.
And anyone would feel the same, when you were leaving me.
You once wrote me a card, that won't fit (in my hands.)
And it was funny at the time, but now it stays with me.
And I hope you will hear when I sing this to you.
Keep moving on, keep moving on.